About this Book

I DON'T SPEAK TO Will Bancroft until our second day
at Aldershot Military Barracks but I notice him on our first.
We arrive in the late afternoon of the last day of April, some
forty of us, a group of untidy boys, loud-mouthed and vulgar,
stinking of sweat and bogus heroism. Those who already know
each other sit together on the train, talking incessantly, afraid
of silence, each voice competing to drown out the next. Those
who are strangers hide in window seats, their heads pressed
against the glass, feigning sleep or staring out as the scenery
rushes past. Some make nervous conversation about the things
they have left behind, their families, the sweethearts they will
miss, but no one discusses the war. We might be on a day trip
for all the nerves we dare show.

We stand around in groups as the train empties and I find
myself next to a boy of about nineteen who glances around
irritably, taking me in and dismissing me again with a single
look. He wears a carefully coordinated expression of resignation mixed with resentment; his cheeks are fleshy and raw,
as if he has shaved with cold water and a blunt razor, but he
stands erect, staring around as if he cannot quite believe the
high spirits of the other boys.

"Just look at them," he says in a cold voice. "Bloody fools,
every last one of them."

I turn to look at him more closely. He's taller than I am, with
a neat haircut and a studious appearance. His eyes are a little
narrow-set and he wears a simple pair of owl-rimmed
spectacles, which he removes from time to time to massage the
bridge of his nose, where a small red indentation is clear to the
eye. He reminds me of one of my former schoolteachers, only
he is younger, and probably less prone to outbursts of
gratuitous violence.

"It's a lot of nonsense, isn't it?" he continues, sucking deeply
on a cigarette as if he wants to draw all the nicotine into his
body in one drag.

"What is?" I ask.

"This," he says, nodding in the direction of the other recruits,
who are talking and laughing as if this is all a terrific lark. "All
of it. These idiots. This place. We shouldn't be here, none of us
should."

"I've wanted to be here since it started."

He glances at me, thinks he has the measure of me already,
and snorts contemptuously as he shakes his head and looks
away. Crushing the spent tab beneath his heel, he opens a
silver cigarette case and sighs when it reveals itself to be empty.

"Tristan Sadler," I say, extending a hand now, not wanting to
get my military career off on a sour note. He stares at it for five
seconds or more and I wonder whether I will have to draw it
back in humiliation, but finally he shakes it and nods abruptly.

"Arthur Wolf," he says.

"Are you from London?" I ask him.

"Essex," he replies. "Well, Chelmsford. You?"

"Chiswick."

"Nice there," he says. "I have an aunt who lives in Chiswick.
Elsie Tyler. You don't know her, I suppose?"

Books that entertain, engage & enlighten

BookBrowse seeks out and recommends books that we believe to be best in class. Books that will whisk you to faraway places and times, that will expand your mind and challenge you -- the kinds of books you just can't wait to tell your friends about.

Newsletter

Subscribe to receive some of our best reviews, "beyond the book" articles, book club info & giveaways by email.